The Battle for the Last Clean Shirt
by Daylight
Summary: The battle to stop the apocalypse involved many small battles. This is one of the smaller ones.


**The Battle for the Last Clean Shirt**

**By Daylight**

It took five minutes of rummaging through his duffle bag before Dean finally found it. Shaking out the wrinkled gray shirt, he gave it a quick cursory inspection and was pleased to note that it was free of any grease, dirt or blood. For the ultimate test, he held it to his face and took a deep sniff. It smelt like the inside of the duffle bag, a familiar stale mixture of old leather and gunpowder. Dean shrugged. So the shirt wasn't mountain fresh. It sure beat the extreme BO smell of all his other shirts.

Satisfied, he gave the shirt a final shake and was just about to slip an arm into a sleeve when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Hey! That's my shirt."

Dean turned around and made a face at his brother who had just exited the motel's bathroom his hair still damp from the shower.

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is," said Sam quickly heading over and making a grab for the shirt.

Dean swung the shirt out of Sam's reach as if he was a matador and Sam the ragging bull. "Not, it's not."

Sam frowned. "Yes, it is. I remember buying it at that thrift shop in Portland." He tried to take the shirt again but Dean twisted out of the way.

"We bought a lot of stuff at that shop."

"Yes, and one of the things I got for myself was that shirt."

"Well, if it's your shirt, then what was it doing in my duffle bag," countered Dean with a smirk carefully holding the aforementioned garment behind his back.

Sam flung his hands up into the air. "How should I know? Our stuff is always getting mixed up. I'm constantly finding your crap in my bag."

"And it so happens that this is one of those pieces of crap. You see this." Dean held up one of the sleeves. The cuff had a ragged tear along the edge. "I tore this when we were fighting that werewolf in North Carolina."

"So you were wearing my shirt while fighting a werewolf and you tore it. That's just great."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Who cares whose shirt it is anyway? It happens to be clean and I don't have any other clean shirts. So I'm going to wear it," he concluded and prepared to pull on the shirt.

"Oh, no." This time Sam was quicker than Dean and before the older Winchester had managed to put the shirt on, the younger was able to catch a sleeve. "I'm going to wear it. I don't have any clean shirts either."

"Hey, let go!" Dean yanked hard on the shirt.

Sam pulled back with equal force. "You let go. You know this wouldn't be a problem if you had done the laundry like you were supposed to."

"Me? It's your turn."

"No, you traded turns with me last time because you didn't want to clean off the gryphon crap."

"But you said you'd do it this time if I stopped singing Zepplin on the way here."

"Then you said you'd do it if I went out and got more coffee."

"Well, I would have…" Dean faltered running out of excuses. "But I've been busy. Now, let go."

"Make me."

A tug-of-war immediately ensued as the shirt was yanked back and forth between the brothers accompanied by frequent cries of 'Mine' and "Give me.' The fabric of the shirt might not have lasted long, but the tug-of-war soon deteriorated into a wrestling match as the pair fell to the floor in a tangled mess of long limbs. They rolled across the motel room's faded carpet as they continued to fight neither willing to let go. Eventually, Dean was able to get the upper hand and wrapped the shirt around Sam's head.

"It's mine!" he cried.

"Dean, why are you trying to suffocate your brother?"

Surprised by the new presence, Dean let go of the shirt. Sam took advantage and quickly rolled out from under him. Pushing himself to his feet, Sam held the shirt above his head in triumph, a large grin on his face.

Dean scowled at the intruder who'd interrupted them. "Damn it, Cas. You made me lose."

The angel frowned at the brothers. "Why were you fighting?"

"He took my shirt," said Dean pointing at Sam who was now happily wearing it.

"You were fighting over a shirt?"

"A clean shirt," explained Dean.

"The last clean shirt," added Sam.

"The world is ending and you've been fighting over a shirt?" Castiel repeated.

The Winchesters nodded.

"The apocalypse is nigh, Lucifer gains more power everyday, and you're concerned about a shirt?"

They nodded again.

Castiel placed his face in his hands and sighed before disappearing once more from the room.

Dean frowned. "What's his problem?"

Sam shrugged.

"Hey, I don't suppose you have a clean pair of jeans?"


End file.
